


Birds of Passage

by igraine1419



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igraine1419/pseuds/igraine1419
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's last gift to Frodo becomes a mirror between two worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Waymeet livejournal community "Good Housekeeping Challenge".

Now the book was finished there seemed little to accomplish, and Frodo had taken to watching the birds. At first they had seemed nothing more to him than another colour in the landscape; fleeting scraps of brown and gold and green, streaked with red. He saw them out of the corner of his eye as he wrote, hopping about on the grass for worms, or else perching on the willow and puffing up their chests to sing. Sometimes Rosie would throw out crumbs of bread, fat and cheese rind and then there would be many, all clustered together pecking and squabbling. He noticed the differences in their feathers and voices and eventually began to mark each one – there a blackbird, there a greenfinch, there a robin. 

One fat little robin grew quite tame and would perch on the sill of Frodo’s study window and sing and sing until it seemed its tiny heart would burst. It was this that made Frodo lay down his pen and look and listen, and a warmth and a fondness grew in him, so that eventually he would put out some of his own crumbled scone or fruit cake on the sill and tempt him close, so that he might watch him and hear his song once again, filling the quiet study with music. Frodo was glad of the disturbance; the song was like cool water running through his mind, washing away the shadows that had gathered there. 

Once Sam came in when the robin sat there on the windowsill, singing. Frodo had the window thrown back wide, to hear the song more clearly and, feeling the cool draught blowing into the hallway, Sam had presumed that Frodo must have fallen asleep and had come into the study to close it. Surprised, he waited in the doorway and watched how Frodo sat with his face in his hands, listening, his eyes very distant and sad, the blue fading to a pale rain-washed grey. The breeze from the open window lifted his long, dark curls one by one, as soft as feathers, but that was only the movement, that and the heaving of the bird’s full breast. The sight of that robin in the smial made Sam’s heart grow chill for it was well known that a wild bird should never come inside, and especially the robin. Such a pretty little bird to bring such sad tidings. Sam shook his head, wishing that Frodo would not welcome it in, wanting to rush at it himself and beat it away with his hands.

Perhaps he might encourage the bird away from the smial, tempt it back into the garden. That was why he had bought the birdbath; made of soft golden stone and simply carved with a ring of leaves around the brim, it was a lovely thing. Sam carried it into the garden one morning in early September when Frodo was still sleeping. He placed it in the very centre of the view that Frodo watched from his study window and he settled it there, planting it like a tree, firming the soil with his feet. When it was quite fixed and sturdy, Sam went to fetch water to fill it. Filling the shallow dish, he thought how fortunate he was to find such a thing at the Bywater market. The stone mason was there, selling some of his wares off cheap, and amongst them this birdbath; as soon as Sam saw it he paid the asking price.

Standing in the garden, dipping his fingers into the cold clear water and watching how it subtly distorted the stone beneath, Sam delayed returning to the hot clamour of the Bag End kitchen. It was strange how changed it had become of late. Once a place of such peaceful, studious contentment, when he was a youngster he used to feel as if a spell had been put over it. They say that the past is sometimes painted gold and that’s how he remembered it now - in soft gold sunlight, like split honeycomb – the dust of paper and parchment filtered and floating. But that was another age, now it was as if a curtain had been tugged down, revealing the smial to be like any other home, a place for talking and washing and eating, scrupulously clean. Although pockets of magic still existed there, they were few and self contained, flinching away from the disturbance of life. Frodo seemed part of that now. Sometimes Sam can’t quite believe it to be the same place and he stands in the familiar passages, lost and bewildered.

Sam could see that Frodo was growing restless, that he sat motionless for too long, looking on things that weren’t there. He wanted to wake him up, rouse him like the sleeping princess in the fairy story, but there was no way he could get close enough, not any longer. Once, a long time ago, he might have put his arms around him and held him, but he had lost that intimacy now, given up the right. All he could do was speak softly to him and offer to get him anything he wanted, do anything for him to ease his sorrows. But this wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, and his heart ached to acknowledge it. 

The morning was mild, with the sweet ripeness of late summer in the air. There was dew on the flowers and on the tip of each blade of grass. A fine mist hung in the air and the birds were singing at the top of their voices. Frodo had been hot in the night and had left his bedroom window open. Sitting up he felt pleasantly chill and breathed in the clear air hungrily, enjoying the freshness and the promise it held. He pulled a gown around his shoulders and went to sit in the windowseat. Pulling back the curtain, he looked out of the little window and saw flashes of wings and the bright scarlet cheeks of the goldfinches spilling from the trees. They were hovering and calling above a pretty stone birdbath that stood on the edge of the grass, almost directly opposite Frodo’s study window. One by one they took turns to bathe, splayed out and wriggling in the water, droplets flying like jewels. Frodo watched them, fascinated and smiling. When they flew away they were replaced by a beautiful jay, his feathers like shot-silk; clinging to the edge of the basin he dipped his head to drink. When he had finished he beat his wings and rose with a hoarse, contented cry. Then came some blue tits, two bullfinches, a flock of long-tailed tits and the fat little robin who sat in the bowl and bathed his downy breast, his little flat tail raised up like a brush, singing a bathing song. 

When Sam came in with Frodo’s morning tea and toast, he was still sitting there watching. He was pleased to see no bird on the windowsill

‘You like it then, Mr Frodo?’ Sam smiled.

Frodo replied without looking away, ‘Thank you, Sam,’ he whispered. 

Sam put the light breakfast down on the little table close by the side of the bed and watched for a moment, wanting to speak, but unable to find the right words. At last when Frodo turned his head and looked at him so softly, it nearly broke Sam’s heart in two. 

It wasn’t long after that Frodo went away and the birds came and went in the garden as they always had, and many came to the birdbath to bathe or to drink. Sam didn’t see the little robin again and those others that came and went were great friends now to his children, who learned their names and marvelled over their bright feathers. Sam watched them now with more interest than he had ever shown before, perhaps because his master had loved them and they were dearer to him for that.

Every morning Sam would fill the bowl with fresh water and whistle for the birds to come down from the trees and as he stood there whistling, he would dip his fingers into the cold, clear water and look at the fractured pictures swimming there, of broken sky and clouds and the leaves on the trees. Sometimes, in the winter months, the old water would turn to a plate of ice he would have to ease out with a stick. Often it would come out in one single piece and the children would love to jump on it and shatter it with their feet, revealing the black splinters beneath. 

As time passed the stone grew weathered, it was hard to believe it had once been the colour of straw, for now it was grey and rain-streaked and around the base of it grew a clinging kind of moss that Sam could not uproot. It looked as though it had been there for as long as the smial existed, that it was part of the earth, like the hill and the great tree that grew over it. Most forgot who had bought it and why, and the children no longer played around it, but preferred to walk down to the river or the woods. No-one but Sam paid it any mind, yet still Sam would walk into the garden every morning and filling it with care, stood to look into the water and think of his master, as if only a single day had passed since his leaving. In time his grandchildren would play around it and make their playthings bathe in its clear water, despite Rose’s scolds that the water was dirty and would make them poorly. ‘Never you mind, ma,’ Elanor would say, ‘we once played there and it never did us any harm, besides dad always keeps the water fresh.’ Rosie rolled her eyes affectionately, watching Sam moving slowly about the garden. ‘Always has done, always will,’ she sighed. ‘Those birds are better tended than any in the Shire!’

Sometimes a new bird would come to the water, one Sam had never seen before in the Shire and couldn’t put a name to, and he would wonder if these birds from distant lands flew over the seas to the elven lands beyond the circles of the world. He wondered if they came to Frodo and sang to him tales of the Shire, and of what they had seen. Sam would give them messages to take back with them, whispering to them softly that soon he would come, soon, when the time was right. Now the year was again on the turn and the days had begun to weary him now his Rose was gone, he thought of Frodo with an urgency that made him restless and his dreams grew rich and full of promise. 

One morning, a misty morning at the beginning of autumn, Sam was bustling about the kitchen, organising cupboards and throwing away old stores that had outlived their usefulness and Elanor, who was staying with him for a few days, came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Dad, you’ve forgotten to change the bird water, would you like me to do it?’ and Sam righted himself slowly and looked at her in astonishment, ‘So I have, and after all these years!’ he said, his eyes gleaming brightly. ‘Perhaps you might do that for me dear, somehow there seems to be no time for anything!’ and he bent back to his work at once, as though his mind was elsewhere. Elanor stood for a moment, watching her father working so busily and so lightly, when of late he had seemed so achingly slow and old and saw something shining in him, as if a light had been ignited in his soul. 

She left the kitchen, walking out into the sweet autumn air with the pitcher in her hands, and changed the water diligently, looking into the water as her father had done and thought of Mr Frodo who had played with her when she was a child and once drawn her a treasured picture of a beautiful silvery horse.

When the smial was rearranged and ordered, Sam changed the water in the birdbath for the last time and put on his journeying clothes and saddling the steady grey, turned to his family with a smile. No-one hindered him, although they were deeply sad to see him go, and many offered to ride with him and some did part of the way, but dropped off one by one, for Sam had little to say and seemed barely aware of them, only patting their arms now and then to mutter, ‘there, there me dear,’ abstractedly, always looking on, to where the sun dipped down over the far horizon. By the time he reached the Westfold there was no-one but Elanor to bid him farewell and she rode with him as far as the Tower Hills and there they dismounted. When they came in first sight of the sea, Elanor slipped her hand into her father’s. The crying of the white gulls filled the air, and the sound seemed to lift their hearts and send them fluttering like flags in the wind. 

‘There now dad, we have come to the sea,’ Elanor said. ‘Will you go further?’ 

Sam looked down at his daughter and carded his fingers through her fine, golden hair, streaked now with grey, and smiled. ‘Dear girl, though it pains me to leave you all, the water is calling me. ‘Tis just as the elves once spoke of, it sings and beckons me on and I find I am ready to go.’

‘Then you must,’ Elanor said. ‘For it is your time.’ 

Holding both horses, she watched her father walk on and although he neither embraced her again, nor bid her farewell, it didn’t grieve her, for it was as if he had already passed on and she was watching only a reflection of what had been. 

As Sam first came in sight of the land beyond the circles of the world, he looked up into the blue sky and caught sight of birds strange and beautiful circling overhead and when they began to sing he heard their voices and understood the language as if he had known it all his life. 

And when he came at last to the little green garden on the hill in sight of the pale white sands and the great, still sea, Sam stood and stared, for there, set in the grass, close by the open windows of the little white pebbled smial, he saw a birdbath. Quite unlike the stout little stone ornament back home, it was tall and elegant and glowed as if it were made of moonstone. There were carvings of homely birds around the brim, and the leaves and flowers of common wayside plants were inscribed around the base, but bathing in the bright, clear water was a great bird with feathers of fire. 

Sam walked up to it, still alone, for there had been no formal reception when he arrived, only the welcome of the birds and the way marked in pebbles and shells. He , was glad of it, for he hadn’t wanted to face a large crowd on arrival. He wished only that he might come here simply and quietly, as if he was entering the borders of Hobbiton and walking home. Somehow he found his path easily, and the elves who anchored the last ship into harbour, watched him climb the hill and didn’t seek to interfere, their pale faces growing ever more distant until they seemed little more than tall white birds standing beside the water. 

The bird wasn’t alarmed by Sam’s presence but continued to bathe, shaking the shining droplets from long, brilliant feathers, and when it had finished it rose with a sweet, single note into the sky and flew away, trailing colours behind it.

Looking down into the water where it had been, Sam dipped his fingers into it, as was his habit at home and saw a strange face looking back at him. Frowning, he stroked the face with his fingers and watched it frown back. Furrowing it still further with ripples, he played with it curiously, as a cat will dip his paw into a pool. Suddenly, the face was joined by another and this face made Sam catch him breath and stare, his fingers falling still. 

‘I know this face, but not the other,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Indeed I have seen this face more times in my dreams than I can count.’

‘And I have seen the other,’ said a soft voice behind his shoulder. ‘Every time I look into the water I have seen it. It hasn’t always looked this way, sometimes it was youthful and sometimes it was old, but it didn’t matter, it was the face of my love and that was all that mattered.’

Sam raised his hand and put it behind him, blindly seeking and found his fingers caught up in a kiss. Looking down, he saw its reflection in the water and realised that those young bright eyes were his own and that startled gasp came from the mouth of a hobbit half his age as if the years had never passed since their parting. 

‘How is this?’ he wondered, as if to himself. 

‘Time runs strangely here. Do you remember how it was in Lothlorien, how long and sweet the days were there and the elves, so ancient and yet their faces were unmarked by time? So time is blessed here, even for us it seems, for a time…’

‘Can it take the years away from me, and those memories I left behind?’

‘No, those years are still with you and they will live still within you, Sam, but their toil shall wither away and the lines with them.’

‘It’s funny,’ Sam laughed, ‘I can look at you now, as if you were a thought swimming in the water, but I can’t for the life of me turn around!’

Frodo smiled but made no move towards Sam but let him look down and gaze and swallow down the tears that were rising in his throat. 

‘Almost like I was back in the Shire looking into my own water and seeing you there…’ Sam murmured, clutching hold of the edge of the smooth stone.

‘The last time I looked I saw a hobbit maid grown graceful and wise. I saw her and I think I knew her as the little hobbit who once liked to creep into my study when I was writing and surprise me with a growl,’ Frodo smiled and then his face fell a little. ‘I was glad to see her and yet I was afraid.’

At the thought of Elanor, existing in that moment both young and old, Sam’s heart gave a twist. ‘Why were you scared?’

‘I thought you had gone,’ Frodo said. 

‘Gone?’ Sam repeated slowly. ‘You mean died?’

‘Yes,’ Frodo closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I never knew for certain you would come, I only hoped and wished for it. I saw Elanor and my hope began to fail, and I started to fear…I dare not look again.’

‘What shall we see now do you think, if we looked together?’ Sam said, looking deep into the reflected sky.

Frodo stepped close behind him, ‘I’m not sure we shall see anything again, I think that path is now lost. Does that trouble you, Sam?’

Sam thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, I have seen enough of that world, so much it began to weary my eyes and I don’t need to look on my family to know their faces.’

‘You have a wonderful family, Sam, so many children and grandchildren!’ Frodo laughed. ‘It must have been the Lady’s seed!’

Sam blushed, ‘I was blessed indeed in many ways,’ he smiled. ‘Although I was never complete, if you understand me, not truly, not in the way you wanted, I’m sorry…’ and at last Sam could no longer hold back the tears and they fell into the water and made tiny blossoming circles on the surface of it, blurring their own reflections.

‘Oh, my dear Sam, there’s no need to be sorry… it’s me that should apologise, insisting on such a thing…’ Frodo held Sam’s shoulders and kissed him on the back of his head, breathing in the soft grassy smell of the old world. ‘Will you let me hold you?’ 

With a groan, Sam fell heavily into Frodo’s arms and they embraced tightly, sobbing and clinging, their bodies rocking together, mouths pressing against necks and ears, throats and mouths, searching and speaking, tears streaming down both of their cheeks, over their lips and tongues. ‘My love,’ they whispered. ‘My love.’

They stood in this way for so long the shadows began to lengthen in the garden and the tide came in in long sighs, stretching up over the pearl-white sand and then drawing back as if the effort was too great. At last Sam’s legs began to buckle beneath him and Frodo, feeling the shift against him, bore Sam up and still cradling him close and murmuring sweet words, carried his love across the garden to the door of the little white-shelled smial. 

‘Here we are,’ he sang. ‘Home - home at last.’

But Sam was already sleeping, and bending to kiss him softly on the mouth, Frodo took him to the bed that sat in an alcove under the window and laying him down carefully, drew the covers over him. Then Frodo sat down on the edge of the bed for a long time, watching and waiting, as the shadows of evening drew about them and Sam’s face eased of all care and settled into dreams, the soft white quilt enfolding him in the warmth of a thousand fallen feathers blown across the sea.


End file.
